Dodging Hand Grenades

Discovering My New Normal

“So, how many kids do you have?” My unsuspecting new colleague lobbed this verbal hand grenade at me, and I couldn’t duck fast enough as it exploded in my face. This is not the first time this naive assault has been hurled at me these past five years after Sebastian’s death. And each time it gets thrown at me, I try and dodge it differently. I don’t know how to answer this. What do I say? How do I say it? Do I have to say anything?

Option #1: I had two grown children, and one has recently died.

But then I feel like I have to explain what happened…everybody seems to want to know what happened.

And then they want details.

I usually want to blurt out, “Oh, my son Sebastian committed suicide by jumping off a 250-foot cliff….”

That can stop all conversations, and then I feel terrible because I know I just made them feel bad.

Then there will be that awkward silence.

But somewhere in my grief-worn brain, I believe they secretly want to know all the details of his death. Maybe I’m wrong, but a part of my psyche struggles with the idea that I must somehow be obligated to repeatedly tell all my horrible truths to people I don’t know. Or even to those I do know. I know, in some morbid way, I would want to know.

Before Sebastian died, when I would daily peruse my local daily newspaper while eating breakfast, I’d always read the obituary column and invariably would be drawn to the cause of death of each individual who had recently died. Usually, the paper would recite the deceased person was surrounded by their loving family as they bravely fought cancer or some other illness to the very end. Sometimes I’d notice the absence of the cause of death; my thoughts would always wonder if perhaps it was suicide. Of course, it could have been an accident, but wouldn’t they have mentioned that? The happy faces of those carefully picked out photos from grieving families looking up at me from the newspaper were usually young, and if I googled it long enough, I’d find out suicide was the probable cause of death. I assume loved ones don’t want to write that their beloved child died of suicide. The pain of what happened to them keeps families from writing about what really happened.

I couldn’t write an obituary for our local paper after Sebastian died. I didn’t want people to feel more sorry for me than they already did. If you write about your child dying by suicide, it means it happened, and they are dead.

Sebastian was dead.

So, I’ve been practicing what to say…

Option #2: “I have two grown children.”

I try and leave it at that. But then, the following well-meaning, not intending-to-hurt-me question will almost always be asked: “so, what are they doing now?”

AAAHHHH!

That won’t work. I technically didn’t lie. I do have two children; just one died recently. So that’s not an untruth. Is it?

Option #3: “I have two kids,” and then I quickly begin this long diatribe about my daughter’s marriage and go into great detail about her dating, engagement, the wedding day, her dress that I altered, hoping, silently praying, my heart beating fast, my palms sweating, that they will forget to ask about Sebastian. This has occasionally worked well for me when meeting new people for the first time.

Option #4: “My kids are all grown and moved out.”

But once again, this leaves room for further questions and potential discussions about Sebastian that I have not been ready until recently to talk about, and I quickly resort to my stock answer from option #2. Part of me feels like I’m betraying my son by not talking about him, as I can readily talk about how well his sister is doing. I could talk about what he did before he died, but that would entail mentioning words like rehab, psych hospitals, and a previous suicide attempt. I would have to go back five or six years to get to the “happy” parts. My stock answer during the last few years had been when he was alive, “he’s doing well today, and he is safe.”

Option #5: “I have two children; my happily married daughter and her husband is living and working in Phoenix, Arizona, and my son, is happily living in heaven with Jesus. 

Hopefully, this answer implies that they are both doing well where they are currently. I know with certainty that Sebastian is healthy, well, and safe in the arms of Jesus. This I can talk about; this gives me hope. I don’t want to keep dwelling on what did happen in the past; my current life is more than his death by suicide, and Sebastian’s new life is more than his death by suicide. He’s more alive now than when he was alive on this earth.

None of the options above are perfect, and the longer I mourn Sebastian’s death, my gut reaction is not so raw and painful each time this question is asked. Maybe I am getting used to my new normal, and answering this question is not as daunting as when I first heard it said to me. I find I can laugh more and remember funny stories about him again. My thoughts are not so much consumed by what he did anymore but about who he was and is to me now.

So, when I’m once again assailed by the unsuspecting hand grenade of “how many children do I have, “my new normal can talk about him much more freely once again, and though it is still painful, it’s not as sad as when it first happened. I can live with that, knowing Sebastian is doing well and I will be alright.